I have a tree.
Nothing. Then Blaine found one locally, bought it for me, and brought it home. He even got me purple. And then the (in)famous words were spoken.
“It’s not self watering. But I’ve been looking online, and I think I can make something.”I nodded, smiled, and I’m sure my eyes got a little bit glazed over. Couldn’t we just put rocks at the bottom like my mother always did?
Oh, no. Certainly not. Yesterday morning I was called into the garage to see the product of all the bumping and scraping and drilling I’d heard.
I’m quite certain I did not make over the invention nearly so much as he desired. It’s a former goat-watering tub, my friends. Re-purposed. I cannot smell the buck’s eu de billy, so all’s good. But is this really necessary?
It’s a pot. With a pipe sticking out of it. That’s where the water goes, I’m told. He even put a stick in the corner of the bedroom so that I can check the water like
I’ll be the first to admit. It' looks lovely. Ten times better. I still think the rocks at the bottom trick would have worked and been far less work. But then I wouldn't have been able to write this post, and all of you wouldn't understand, on a really small scale, the kind of guy I married.
Who am I kidding? I’m not sure I understand either. We’re opposites, that’s all I know. That, and he makes me look really, really lazy when he does something like this.